Dean watched, impressed, as his new tenant heaved the first box into the basement. The guy had some serious muscle. "Need any help?" he asked.

"Urmm, yeah. If you wouldn't mind," he replied.

"No problem. Are the rest in your car?"

"Taxi actually. The guy's waiting outside."

"Okay," Dean said, opening the door and walking out to the taxi on the curb. He greeted the driver with a smile and went to the open trunk. He was surprised that there wasn't much in there. His tenant, Samuel, had already brought in one box, and there was only a big rucksack and two more boxes in the taxi. Dean grabbed a really heavy box and struggled back to the house, walking through the open door. Samuel was coming up the stairs. Dean flashed him a grin as he passed, then he waddled down the stairs, careful not to scratch the newly painted wall. He placed the box on the floor and the contents rattled. His tenant came down the stairs a couple of minutes later with the last box and the large hiking rucksack on his back.

"Thanks Mr Winchester."

"My pleasure. And call me Dean. I'm your landlord not your school principle."

"Okay, thanks Dean."

"I'll leave you to unpack, then I'll walk you through the house to refresh your memory of the place."

"Sure," Sam said, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. He ripped the tape from the first box and opened it. Inside were a couple of shirts, t-shirts and jeans, a second pair of sneakers and some underwear. Wrapped in a couple of shirts were some old books and a photo of a woman and a new born baby. The photo was in an old silver frame which almost, but didn't quite cover the orange date stamp: 05/02/83, his birth date. Sam folded the clothes and put them in the old maple wood chest of drawers in the corner of the room. Then he placed the photo frame on top. The books went on a small shelf on the white wall opposite the double bed. The next box contained more books; modern ones this time, which joined the old ones on the shelf. The rusty blue metal alarm clock went next to the photo frame, and a cloth bag with a towel, razor, aftershave, soap and all in one shampoo-conditioner-shower gel (taken from a motel somewhere) made its home in the tiny adjoining bathroom, in which the sink, shower and toilet were so close together that he could probably use all three at once. Sam dragged the hiking bag to the corner of the room where there was a mini fridge and small oven with a hob on top. He took out a carton of milk, a small kettle and a couple of different ready meals. He had an old saucepan which he placed on the hob, and a half used packet of rice which he put in the little cupboard. The pasta and an almost expired jar of sauce joined the rice, along with some sugar and a jar of instant coffee. At the bottom of the main bag was a red mug with a chipped rim. Sam put it on the side with his knife, spoon and fork. His white china plate, also chipped went there too. The crockery had been wrapped in a winter coat, hat and scarf which Sam hung on the hook on the back of the door. He took some pieces of crinkled paper out of the coat pocket and put it next to the stove. It was a take away pizza menu and a Chinese menu, each with phone numbers for different areas on. Then he reached into the side pocket of the bag and brought out a one-kilo bag of refined table salt. He placed it in cupboard, hoping he wouldn't have to use it.

Once his clothes, books and food were unpacked, Sam opened the last box. He cracked a tired, relieved smile when he saw the contents again. He reached inside with caution and took out his silver pocket knife, wiped the blade on his jeans and placed it next to the photo on the chest of drawers. Then he had second thoughts and put it in the bedside table drawers. He put the flashlight on the bedside table. Then he took out a large tin filled with rock salt bullets and another tin with pure silver bullets. Sam put the sawed off shotgun under the bed, and the black pistol and a small bottle of gasoline in the bedside table along with his knife and the bullets. He hopefully wouldn't be needing the weapons anymore, but he wasn't taking any chances so early on in his new life. Sweaty and tired, Sam took some draft stoppers out of the box. They were long thin canvas cylinders, which Sam had filled with salt, not sand. He had come to the conclusion that having lines of salt by the doors and windows would be hard to explain, so he'd put the salt in draft stopper bags. In was inconspicuous and would also keep the demons out, should any come looking for him. He placed one draft stopper at the door and one at the window. Then he heaved the double mattress off the bed, groaning as he did so, and put more draft-stoppers against the edge of the bed frame. These draft stoppers were hardly filled with salt and were almost flat, so when Sam heaved the mattress back onto the bed, the difference in height was hardly noticeable. Now, with salt at the windows and doors and all around his bed, along with his arsenal, there was no way (hopefully) that a demon could attack him. He knew he was being paranoid, but he had to be safe.

He sat on the bed for a minute, panting, trying to expel all thoughts of the supernatural world from his brain. Then he heard movement upstairs and remembered Dean. He stripped off his sweaty tank top, jeans and underwear and stepped into the shower. The water gurgled in the pipe for a second before gushing out in cold splutters. Sam gasped as it ran down his muscular back. A few seconds later, it warmed up and became a steady flow. He grabbed the shampoo-conditioner-shower gel and washed his damp hair and body. When he was clean he took the old towel and dried himself. Then he shaved in the sink, looking into the steamy mirror. He rubbed his hair with the towel and shook it like a wet dog until it was dry. Then, he placed the towel over the translucent shower door to dry. He dressed in jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. He'd noticed Dean wasn't wearing shoes in the house, and had even gone out to the taxi in socks, so Sam put on a pair of thick black socks and jogged up the stairs to his front door. He kicked the salt-filled draft stopper out of the way to open the door, then he stepped into the main house. The carpet was navy blue and wearing thin. He was in a hallway with the front door to his left and an open door to his right a couple of metres away. Through the open door, Sam could see a sitting room and a kitchen. The walls were white, like the walls of the basement flat, and there was a picture of his landlord Dean with his arm around a man with short black hair and stubble. Sam smiled. The next picture along the wall was of the same two men, and the next.

"Hey Samuel."

Sam jumped a little. Dean was standing in the doorway.

"Hi."

"Shall we start the tour?"

"Sure," Sam smiled. "And um, please call me Sam okay?"

"Sure," Dean replied, his heart warming to his new tenant.